


Payback

by Siofra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Gen, Non-Sexual, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 23:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siofra/pseuds/Siofra
Summary: Written for an old kinkmeme prompt: After the pool area explodes, John is severely injured. Sherlock apprehends Jim but, instead of turning him in, decides to make Jim pay until John recovers.Dark, gory, and gross. You are warned.





	Payback

It had nearly been two months, since he took Jim. It didn't matter how. All that mattered was that Jim would suffer.

Sherlock walked into the warehouse, package under his arm, his demeanour calm despite the evening's plans. He'd gotten the building from Mycroft, who wasn't going to ask questions he didn't want the answers to, especially when he already knew the answers anyway. Mycroft wasn't nearly so... vindictive as Sherlock, but he knew that what was happening was inevitable. Sherlock wanted Moriarty to pay, so Moriarty would pay. And, even to someone as “government” as Mycroft, family is stronger than legality.

He opened the steel-concrete door, covering his hand with a clean handkerchief, so there were no fingerprints left. He had no worries that he'd get caught -Mycroft was too good to let that happen- but he didn't want to take unnecessary risks. He ducked into a spare room for a minute to change into his “work clothes”. No need, after all, to get his good clothes covered in filth, and he certainly didn't want to drive back to London dirty. He picked his package back up and walked out. He might have whistled, if he were the type who whistled.

He walked down two flights of stairs into the basement, down the hallway past lamp after sulfur-yellow flickering lamp until he came to the door he wanted. He spun the combination lock open and opened the door, letting it slam behind him, and flipped on the light.

The body on the floor could barely be called human. Jim was never physically imposing, but weeks with little food and much pain had drawn him even thinner. He lay on a sparse mattress in old underwear and a too-tight straitjacket, his left ankle chained to the floor. There was a drain on one side, and a water bucket on the other. He'd apparently been startled awake by the door. _Good_ , Sherlock thought, _enough to set him on edge, not enough to panic. Beautiful._

Sherlock stood next to the door, arms crossed. “Hello, Jim.”

Jim didn't answer, just stared at the box by Sherlock's feet.

“You look hungry,” Sherlock drawled. He wasn't nearly as bored as he looked. “You've been eating too fast. I left you food for three days, and you finished it yesterday morning.”

When this had started, Jim would have laughed. Three weeks ago, he would have yelled out, “You only left me food for one day, you fucking bastard,” and thrown the food at Sherlock's face. Now, he didn't say anything, but just kept staring at the box. This box was the bigger one, so Jim knew it had more in it than his ration of food. He didn't have any idea what it could be, this time. Sherlock was much more inventive than Jim had given him credit for.

Sherlock used his foot to nudge the box closer to the man on the floor, and Jim's stomach lurched, from hunger and fear. The adrenaline from imagining what might be there didn't let him move, didn't let him fight- it just intensified the burn in his empty stomach. All part of the mind games

“The doctors say John might not wake up. They say that every day that passes lessens the chance.” He pushed the box a bit closer, just out of Jim range of motion. It was a tease, to put promises of food so close to a bound man. Sherlock smirked at the thought of his surprise tonight as he brought over a chair for himself. “Do you want to see what's in the box?”

Jim looked up. Two months ago, he would be the last person to cry. Now there was a constant glassy sheen, although that might have been malnutrition. He was sitting on his knees, alternating his vision between Sherlock's face and the box in front of him. He was frightened, but he was so _hungry_.

Sherlock made sure to give Jim just enough food to keep him alive and aware. He didn't want the former criminal to go delirious from deficiency. That wouldn't be any fun. So he kept Jim on the edge of hunger, making him dependent for food. He'd tried to make Jim beg him for it, but that hadn't worked. Jim never bargained, but went from anger straight to silence. Instead, Sherlock put the jacket on him, and he kept it on during feeding. Sometimes he made Jim eat off the floor. Other times he made him eat out of Sherlock's hand. Today, he had a different surprise in store.

“Well, you look hungry. I know I usually feed you when I'm done, but I think you need it now,” Sherlock said through his grin. Sherlock had taught Jim to fear that smile. It always meant something worse was coming. He stooped down and opened the box so it faced him. “Close your eyes, and open your mouth.” He got out the plastic dish full of food and set it in front of the kneeling man. He popped the lid off but left it on top.

“The lid's still on, but you can eat now.” He stood back up and sat back in the chair, his smile growing wider with anticipation. “Eat,” he commanded, and Jim pushed the lid aside and dove into the food.

Jim retched almost immediately.

Sherlock chuckled. “What's wrong, Jim? I thought you were hungry. Go on. Eat.”

The best tortures are, obviously, those which cause the most pain. The problem is in figuring out which type of pain is the worst. It's rather personalised. Some people are stoic to the point of looking like statues, but start crying when they stub their toes. Others succumb to fears and phobias. Still others needed some sort of mental pressure to break, like constant noise or light. Sherlock knew all this. That's why he was good at it. Jim needed something mental. Something long and drawn out. Sherlock had had this idea for a while now, and was itching to use it.

For someone like Jim, made achingly desperate for food, bringing in a hamburger with all the trimmings would have been like Christmas. Which is why Sherlock put maggots in it. Nothing breaks a man like Jim more than broken promises.

That, of course, wouldn't be enough. One day without a meal wouldn't break him, just -metaphorically- pop a joint.

“I said _eat_ , Jim. I meant it. You need your strength.” Sherlock's voice changed, now with a hint of a threat.

Jim forced his face down. Beggars can't be choosers, after all. This might be the only food he got for days. He couldn't let it go, no matter how disgusting it was. He choked back a gagging sob when he took the first bite. The tiny larvae wriggled on his tongue, but he couldn't let himself retch it up again. He eventually forced it down, and leaned down again to repeat. Sherlock just stared at the man until he was done, and Jim scooted back onto his mattress.

“Good, Jim.” He stood and put the box on a small table near them. After taking the knife out, he replaced the lid. “I told you you'd need your strength.”

It was a small knife. More of a scalpel, really, which Sherlock thought appropriate, given the circumstances. When Jim first tried to escape, Sherlock slit the bottom of his foot open. Not deep enough for structural damage, but it made it a bitch to try and walk. Sherlock decided it was the time for a little variation.

He walked over to Jim, the scalpel safely on the table out of Jim's reach, and started to undo the ties to the jacket, then pushed Jim onto his stomach.

“You're not going to hit me, are you Jim?” He didn't pay attention to whether or not Jim answered. Not that the man could do much damage in this condition, but it was the principle of the thing. He took a length of rope lying nearby and bound Jim's elbows behind his back, wrenching them tight together, then tied his wrists. He let a small grin of anticipation grace his lips.

“Now keep still, Jim. Wouldn't want you to overexert yourself.” He stood again and retrieved the scalpel, then straddled Jim's legs, holding him still. He took Jim's hand up and massaged it, testing the strength and the movement of the tissues.

“I've heard you scream before, Jim. I'm going to hear you scream again.” He didn't pay attention to the small whimper that escaped Moriarty's throat.

The edge of the scalpel was run over Jim's palm and up one finger, not hard enough to break the skin yet. Sherlock liked to draw it out as long as he could. He teased the edge of Jim's fingernail, pressing just hard enough to raise a thin, pink line. He gave Jim no warning, and paid no heed to the shout ripped from the man's throat, already raw from larvae and stomach acid, when he pressed the tip into the flesh of the man's palm, maybe a quarter inch deep. He took the blade out and plunged in back in, just as deep, an inch to the left. He repeated it a third time, then picked up the left hand.

This hand, he decided, should be slow. This was the hand that signalled to the sniper that shot the Semtex. He put the tip of the blade to Jim's hand and pushed it as slowly as he could manage. Jim's shout had ebbed to a low, raw whine, but it surged louder when Sherlock twisted the blade, widening the wound.

Sherlock noted how slow Jim's blood was flowing. The man had eaten and drunk so little that his blood volume had gone down. There, in reality, was not much blood considering the amount of damage already done. _Good_ , he thought. _It won't get so slippery this time_.

Still, there was enough blood to make him adjust his grip. _Irritating_. He ran the tip under a fingernail, just enough to loosen it from the nail bed, and Jim keened. The man beneath him might have been struggling, but he was weak, and Sherlock's form hid his strength, so the small amount of struggling Jim even could do didn't amount to all that much.

“When I'm done with _you_ , Jim, I think you might _lie_ as still as _John_ , now,” he said, punctuating his sentence with small jabs between knuckles. He hadn't meant for it too, but Sherlock forced it in deeper on 'John'. He felt the very tip of the blade scrape along a metacarpal bone, and the small grind sent reverberations through his own hand. He wanted to feel it again, so he repeated the motion on Jim's thumb. _Just as satisfying the second time_ , he mused.

He tuned back in to Jim's sounds. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear Jim scream, more that those sounds weren't the point. Sherlock had met people who didn't make a sound during burn debridement, and others who cried when they got a papercut. He knew the intensity of the sound had no correspondence with intensity of pain. Besides, he knew how to cause pain, whether the person screamed or cried or blacked out. He'd learned a lot from the people he tracked down.

“ _This_ is really going to hurt, Jim.” He let the implication sink into Jim's head as he gave his own hands a small rest. Oh, yes, he could make it _much_ worse than this.

Once his fingers no longer felt so stiff, he picked up Jim's first hand again, palm up. He isolated one finger, the index, in his own palm, holding it tightly. He might be stronger, especially now, but Moriarty was still going to try to struggle.

He started at the root of the digit, pushing the scalpel down to the bone. Jim's body was tense, moreso than even a minute ago. _Good, he deserves this_. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew the scalpel upwards through the flesh, keeping the pressure constant until he reached the tip. Jim's scream was hoarse, his voice gone ragged from overuse. Sherlock tuned the grating sound out as he selected the next finger. He repeated the motions as exactly as he possibly could: blade to the bone, steady pressure to the tip, and he put a little twist at the end of this one. Then the next finger. Then the next, and the next.

Jim's voice had gone out by the time Sherlock had finished. The only sounds coming from his throat were clicks and wheezing. _When did that happen? Ah- about halfway through the third finger. He's damaged the cartilage, by the sounds of it_.

“Jim. You're not saying anything, Jim.”

Moriarty didn't look up, too unfocussed to give what little attention he had to Sherlock. He was swaying, as though he'd been drugged. He hadn't, of course. Sherlock didn't want any substance getting in the way of what he wanted Jim to feel. He was still wheezing. Sherlock couldn't decide if he enjoyed that or not. He'd not given it consideration in his plans. Still, it might prove positive in the end. _John can't talk; neither should you_. Yes, this would suit him just fine.

Sherlock decided that was enough for one night- after all, why permanently take Jim's voice away when he could do it all over again instead? He stood up and dragged Moriarty's almost-fainting body back to the bed, and reattached the ankle cuff. He didn't bother putting the straightjacket back on him – there was no chance of him escaping at this point and his hands would be useless for weeks. He instead picked up a pair of large leather gloves from the box, along with a jar of salve, and walked over to Moriarty. He picked up each of Jim's hands and squirted a small amount of salve on, then put the gloves on him. The vitamin E would help them to heal, just in case Sherlock wanted to repeat today's activities. He set the salve next to Jim, with a small note to reapply the salve as often as possible. He even generously left the lid on loose.

He went back to the box and took out a lunch tin with Jim's rations for the next few days – these graciously vermin-free – and placed it next to the jar of salve. He threw a threadbare blanket over the prostrate body. Jim would need extra protection against shock, and Sherlock still wasn't ready to give this up. Jim wouldn't be allowed to leave, not even through death, until John's fate was certain.

Sherlock returned to the room with his clothes, his tread slow and sluggish. These nights always left him exhausted, and he desperately wanted something to take the fatigue away. He changed back. The weight of his coat was comforting.

There was no small part of Sherlock that wanted to repeat the tortures upon his own body. Although he knew it nonsensical, and he had no intention of following through, there was a part of him that felt he deserved to be in the same position as John. John, who had his body broken. Who had lain unconscious for seven weeks, and might do so until he died. Who had only gotten involved because of Sherlock.

John had spoken, once, about how he didn't want to die, but he felt like he should, because he hadn't died, but his fellow medic had. John hadn't been able to stop the bleeding. Sherlock hadn't understood why John felt guilty. The man died because he had five bullets in him. The blame lay entirely on the man who held the gun, not the man who tried to save his life. John explained that it wasn't really guilt; that it felt more like duty.

Sherlock understood, now. Rationally, he knew it was Moriarty's fault that John lay silent. But Moriarty had only acted because Sherlock got in his way, and so Sherlock felt the perverted sense of duty to match John's circumstances. It simply wasn't right that John had broken a clavicle, three ribs, his leg, and the opposite ankle, or that his face was marred by a long scar over his cheek, or that he might never regain the use of his left hand, while Sherlock had sprained his wrist and gotten a few scratches. It wasn't right that Sherlock needed an ice pack, while John needed seven units of blood. It wasn't right that he would need years of physical therapy, simply because of his bad choice of roommate.

Sherlock pushed the thoughts away as he stepped into the car. He might indulge those thoughts when he was too tired to force them away, but he wouldn't let himself go farther than that. Sherlock had promised himself already that, if John never recovered, if he died, that he would return to the cocaine. There would be no more cases, not when he knew he would turn to a blogger that wouldn't be there. Not when he knew Donovan would blame him for putting John in danger, and Lestrade would not succeed in hiding his pity. He would retreat to his needle until he felt nothing. He would put too much in the syringe- not to die, but because he knew he wouldn't care if he did.

There was still hope, though Sherlock was too tired to feel it. His injuries were healing as well as could be expected. But the doctors at the hospital had said John should be awake by now, and that each passing day lessened that chance. But there was a chance, and Sherlock wouldn't give up until that chance had resolved. Until then, Jim would feel everything Sherlock was afraid that John felt, and everything Sherlock felt he deserved.

 


End file.
